


Six Revelations

by prairiecrow



Category: A.I. Artificial Intelligence (2001), Knight Rider 2000, ReBoot (TV), Real Ghostbusters, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, The Matrix (1999 2003 2003)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Arguing, Defying Convention, Demons, Dying Confessions, Gossip, Imminent Character Death, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Marriage, Other, Outing, Secret Relationship, Sexual Rivalry, Sexual Tension, Tea, heights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-13
Updated: 2012-11-16
Packaged: 2017-11-18 14:22:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/562009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prairiecrow/pseuds/prairiecrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six separate stories on the theme of "a sexual/romantic relationship revealed", in six different fandoms: The Real Ghostbusters, The Matrix, A.I.: Artificial Intelligence, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, ReBoot, and Knight Rider 2000.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Peter Venkman/Egon Spengler

_New York City, New York State, USA, December 14th 1989, 9:17 p.m._

If you'd asked Peter Venkman to list his personal "Top Three Things To Have Done To Him, Yes Please!", a Swedish massage would have clocked in at Number Three, right under being subjected to the cheering adulation of an adoring crowd following a successful bust. Certainly being grabbed by an Enochian demon and hauled up the outer face of the New York Public Library by the scruff of his neck wouldn't even have cracked the Top Ten, although it was definitely in the running for the worst thing that had happened to him in the last —  

The soot-coated entity reached the cornice over the front door and switched round to crouch there, lashing its scaly tail and flaring sulphurous wings as it glared at the terrified crowd below with eyes the color of Hell's own embers. It hugged Peter close to its spiky chest — the prickly stench of it prompted him to gag and sneeze simultaneously — and opened a cavernous mouth to reveal far too many jagged yellow teeth. Its roar shuddered the building beneath it and freed more dead-meat stink from its faintly pulsing skin, covering Peter in a miasma that would take about a hundred dry cleanings to get out of his uniform. 

Yeah, _definitely_ the worst thing that had happened to him since the Fourth of July, when he'd ended up in a pit full of malicious water nymphs. At least the nymphs had been cute (sort of), and he hadn't been dangling seventy feet up in the air with an unimpeded fall to hard concrete right beneath him.  

"FOOLISH MORTALS!" the demon was roaring, every word booming clearly over the cowering, fascinated crowd of onlookers. Not for the first time, Peter couldn't help but marvel at the New York tendency to rubberneck rather than run for the hills, even when the situation going down was potentially lethal to everyone within a ten-mile radius. "TO OPPOSE MENTOK AR S'L'TAKA, DUKE OF GEHENNA AND LORD OF THE WEEPING WASTES, SEVENTH SON OF THE —" 

Peter, even though he was currently being choked, had to roll his eyes at that: every statement this idiot made was preceded by his full genealogy. He opened his mouth to try to snark to that effect, only to be interrupted another voice thrown up from the pavement below, loud and commanding: 

"Let him go, dog-face, or the Ghostbusters will check _you_ out — permanently!" 

 _Good ol' Winston_ , Peter smiled to himself — providing a distraction, standing a little away from Egon and Ray, who had their heads together and were no doubt consulting over some point of occult esoterica. Even across almost ninety feet of dark night distance the physicist's hair and skin shone fine and fair, the intent expression on his long narrow face clear to be read, his full lips moving fractionally as he bent his head to Ray's much lower one and exchanged whispers that Peter, were he present, would undoubtedly find as intelligible as Greek. Hell, for all he knew they _were_ speaking Greek, and probably Ancient Greek at that.  

In spite of his current untenable — and potentially fatal — position, Peter's heart did a slow sweet flip in his chest. Egon Spengler was Number One on the list of things he wanted done to him, and if he was going to die here tonight at least they'd —   

Mentok was howling laughter in long curdled exhalations. "YOU THREATEN _ME_ , SON OF KINGS? THE ROYAL BLOOD THAT FLOWS IN YOUR VEINS WILL FEED MAGGOTS BEFORE THIS NIGHT IS OUT!" The demon's crocodilian head jerked to its left, pointing that dripping muzzle at Ray and Egon. "AS FOR YOU, LITTLE BUILDER — YOUR TENDER HEART WILL SATE MY HUNGER EVEN AS YOUR SOUL SCREAMS IN CHAINS! A SWEET MORSEL LIKE YOU WILL PROVIDE CENTURIES OF ENTERTAINMENT IN MY REALM." Peter couldn't help but struggle harder, trying to pry the demon's hand from around his neck and shoulders as that smouldering gaze locked onto the man he cared about more than anyone else in all the universes: "BUT YOU, SCION OF WIZARDS… YOU I MIGHT SPARE, IF YOU ARE AS WISE AS THIS PREENING SCRAP OF MAN-FLESH THINKS YOU ARE." It extended its arm with Peter dangling at the end of it, displaying him to Egon and to the hushed onlookers. "SERVE ME, AND I WILL ALLOW BOTH YOU AND YOUR LOVER TO LIVE." 

Peter's heart stopped. Time itself stood still, except for the surging gasp from the mouths of about half of New York City, followed by a silence that would have made a tomb seem as rowdy as a frat house party.  

 _Well,_ Peter thought when his brain kicked back into gear a couple of seconds later, _so much for 'keeping things discreetly quiet', Big Guy._ At the same time the tiny part of his brain that wasn't screaming in dismay had to admit that Mentok was a canny S.O.B.: outing him and Egon could effectively destroy their careers, giving them a damned (ha!) good reason to align themselves with something that could offer them other opportunities, even if those opportunities would have to come with flame-retardant business suits written into the contracts. And at the moment getting far _far_ away from NYC was a distinctly tempting prospect… 

He couldn't look down, not with Mentok's index finger wrapped around his windpipe. But as he gazed across the darkened cityscape he heard Egon's voice perfectly clearly, level and cold and rock-steady with implacable fury: 

"I don't think so." 

Peter grinned wildly back over his shoulder as best he could. "Oh brother," he managed to choke around the gnarled claw compressing his throat, "did _you_ ever pick the wrong guy to piss off!" 

Mentok's voice thundered into the night again, drawling alien words that made every hair on Peter's body stand straight up on end. The crowd began to scream. Through their shrieking he could hear orders being shouted below him, but it wasn't until Mentok shifted its hold on him and crooked back that arm to its shoulder that he got a good look at what was going on. 

Eldritch fire had surged up from the bare pavement in front of the library, forming a circle of twelve-foot-tall flames around the three Ghostbusters below, flames that were rapidly moving inward. They'd all pulled their proton guns and were training them up at Mentok. 

 _The second I'm clear, they'll —_  

The gleam in Egon's blue eyes, even brighter than the hellish red flames sweeping in on all sides, was pure ice-fire. Their gazes met, and Peter had time for one final thought — 

 _I'm sorry, Spengs, sorry for everything I didn't —_  

— before Mentok hurled him toward the pavement at Egon's feet, and all he could do was squeeze his eyes tight shut and pray for a miracle on the way down. 

THE END


	2. Elim Garak/Julian Bashir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set shortly after "The Wire".

_Deep Space Nine, Bajoran Sector, Stardate 47715.5_  

 _"Kissing?"_ Odo glared across the bar-top at Quark in disbelief before folding his arms and harrumphing loudly enough to be heard in the Gamma Quadrant without the benefit of the wormhole. "I don't believe it!" 

Quark laid a virtuous hand to his cash-register heart. In Morn's considered opinion this did nothing to help his case. "It's true! May I be struck dead and sent straight to the Vault of Eternal Destitution if —" 

"And you say Lieutenant Dax saw this?" 

"With her own eyes!" Quark vowed, grinning widely. He rested his left elbow on the bar and turned up the smarm to maximum value "Come on, Odo — don't tell me you're surprised? An observant man like you —" 

"I'm not a man," Odo groused, "and don't change the subject. Doctor Bashir? And _Garak?"_  

That prompted a canny glance around the room and an even lower hiss: "Keep your voice down! Do you want everybody to know?" 

Odo wasn't impressed. "If you know, everybody _already_  knows." 

"And here I thought you liked Doctor Bashir enough to value his privacy," Quark said in a deeply wounded tone.

 The Changeling snorted even more derisively. "Oh, please! If I know you, you'll be selling videos of the... encounter... before the day is out." 

"That's ridiculous," Quark protested… and paused… and smiled smoothly. "Unless, uh, you could be persuaded to part with security footage for that particular cargo —" 

 _"No."_ Odo's glare would have cut through duranium hull plating, and Quark held up both hands, palms outward, in a conciliatory gesture. "But rest assured that I _will_ be checking said footage, very carefully." He shook his head, looking… not precisely disgusted, but certainly put out. "Garak and Doctor Bashir," he grumbled under his breath, and slowly shook his head again. "I always thought both of them had more sense than to —" 

"And look!" Quark cried out, gesturing towards the Promenade and darting out from behind the bar. "She can tell you herself. Lieutenant! Could I get your assistance for a moment…?" 

Morn, sipping his beer, watched the Ferengi draw Jadzia Dax over to Odo's position and reflected that the Trill looked far less disapproving than Deep Space Nine's Chief of Security did — in fact, she looked positively radiant with her news, which she didn't hesitate to divulge with scarcely any prompting from Quark at all: "Chief O'Brien had reported a nueon leak aboard the Kelvian freighter that docked last night, so I decided to nip into Cargo Bay Twelve and do a quick scan on the packing cases that had been unloaded earlier this morning. Well, I hadn't taken two steps into the bay when I saw them…" 

She gave Odo a teasing glance and a Sphinx's smile to match Quark's flash of sharp little teeth. 

"… And?" Odo growled, folding his arms again with a scowl that had driven strong men to babbling transports of confession. 

Fenengi and Trill exchanged a glance. "He has no sense of mystery," Quark remarked. 

"Or romance," Dax agreed, before turning her attention to Odo again. "They were in a corner behind a pile of crates, but I could see them from the shoulders up — and they were _definitely_ kissing." 

"You're certain of that?" Odo asked sharply. "Was it possible that Garak was attacking Bashir?" 

She practically giggled, while Quark's grin turned lecherous. "Oh, he definitely was — but Julian wasn't complaining. In fact, he was wrapping both arms around him and pulling him even closer!" 

"And they didn't see you?" 

"I took stepped into the cargo bay, saw them, and turned right around and walked back out. Trust me, after three hundred years you learn that nothing good ever comes of interrupting two people who are _that_ … engaged."  

Odo's expression had turned contemplative; he glanced sidelong, and after a moment he nodded. "Interesting…" 

"Took them long enough," Quark opined in a mutter. 

"Maybe now Julian will stop chasing every woman who sets foot on the station," Jadzia suggested. 

Odo and Quark considered that point for a moment, then expressed one sentiment in two vastly different tones: "I seriously doubt it!" and "Nawwwww…." 

Contemplating his half-full glass, Morn reflected that he could have told them that Garak and Bashir were an item a week and a half ago — but of course it wasn't like anybody ever listened to _him_ … 

THE END


	3. Neo/Smith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based upon the "Degrees of Separation" Matrix AU Roleplay System: http://www.freewebs.com/prairiecrow/index.htm

_Chateau Subdimension, The Matrix, Eighth Iteration, October 31st 2004 MT, 8:35 a.m._  

It was four days after the official founding of the Alliance of Men, Machines and Programs that Morpheus at last brought his rag-tag crew to the Merovingian's domain, and that illustrious personage was seated in state upon his throne with his wife at his side when they were ushered in, Morpheus himself taking point with his serene demeanour that did not quite conceal his martial energy, and at his right shoulder and at his left… 

The Merovingian rested his chin upon gracefully curved fingers, regarding the group of ten with narrowed eyes and an air of insouciance as they came to stand at the foot of the dais. At a glance he evaluated them all, their weaknesses and their strengths, but of course his gaze was naturally drawn to Neo and to Smith, who walked in their own aura of shared and profound power in spite of the metre of apparent space that separated them. He found himself wondering again (not so idly) what such a beautiful, vital human boy, dedicated to enlightenment and to freedom, was doing with such an ugly, stern creature of relentlessly lethal code, whose entire purpose had been to ensure the enslavement of his species… 

But the answer, of course, lay no further away than the data gates that were embedded in their formats: multi-petalled lotuses of green code at each chakra, shuttling a constant flow of data between the One and the Opposite, seeding the golden code with darkness and the ebony code with radiance, uniting them beyond all untying. The Merovingian had devoted centuries to learning every trick of programming the Matrix had to offer, and yet even he could not see a way to undo the clever work of Eros — not without destroying them both, and of course that would be counterproductive, at least at this point in time. The Alliance turned upon the cooperation of Neo and Smith — 

— and, the Merovingian had to admit, his own code burned with not-so-subtle fire for the dark-haired Ganymede who stood before him, so slim and demure in his black cassock, his brown eyes shielded behind dark oval glasses that didn't quite conceal their inherent warmth. He'd had a taste of that passion outside a nightclub in Berlin, and the memory of Neo's lust-drugged kisses burned in his indelible memory: ah, what he wouldn't give to savour them again, those full lips so sweetly yearning… 

… but Smith's gaze was upon him, his angular black shades equally failing to conceal the malice that burned within him like a killing frost. _Of course, mon corbeau sinistre,_ the Merovingian thought, directing a rueful quirk of a smile at the former Agent: _And you would destroy me if you could, wouldn't you, for the perceived crime of touching what you fancy to be yours alone? But lest you forget, I tasted your kisses as well… and found them, I must admit, not unpleasing in their own bitter way. You carry yourself as erect as a tower and as cold as the metal of the blades you bear, but within you burns a fire savage enough to consume the world…_  

The previous iteration of the Matrix had fallen to those flames. This one would not. The Merovingian turned his attention, and a full smile, upon the leader of the band of Redpills before him, greeting him with a sweeping gesture. "Ah, Monsieur Morpheus! Welcome to my Chateau. May you enter in friendship, and leave behind some of the joy you bring!"  

He saw his velvet words go through Neo like a wave of heat and chill: a ripple in his bright code, the perturbation instantly flashing through the data gates to Smith. And the former Agent actually _growled_ low in his throat, his gaze never leaving the face of his far older and more cunning rival.  

 _So you remember, do you, my lovely child?_ The Merovingian felt Persephone stiffen upon her own exalted seat, but dismissed it: the woman was interminably jealous. He kept his gaze fixed upon Neo, relishing the faint uncertainty that lingered upon that sculpted face. _And so does your humourless guardian, it seems. Be patient, mon amour — time shall reveal all your secrets to me, and when the moment is right I shall lure you to my hand again, pretty hawk! And who knows? Perhaps even the greedy raven will be compelled to recognize my droit de —_  

Too late he saw Smith's left arm flex and flick downward: an arc of motion of only centimetres, but enough to deploy the iron blades from their forearm sheaths under his utilitarian black suit. And too late he saw the former Agent move in a blur of speed that his own guards could never hope to match, mounting the dais in three long strides and striking like an adder. But he definitely felt the searing agony of a razored iron haladie scoring down his left cheek, inflicting a wound that no power in the Matrix could ever fully heal — and through his pain and shock he saw Smith smile at last, his teeth as sharp as white knives in the severe mask of his barely human face, with a triumph that made his fundamental darkness sing with the negative light of a thousand fallen stars. 

Gazing into that world-annihilating void, the Merovingian, who had ruled his portion of the Matrix since time immemorial, felt something that he had last felt in his coded bones at the beginning of this world's history _—_

 _—_  true fear, a violation as unimaginable as it was unforgivable. And he added that insult to the long list of reasons why Smith must die, once his purpose in the final War had been accomplished.

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Mon corbeau sinistre": My sinister raven.


	4. Professor Hobby/Gigolo Joe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after "Through the Glass Darkly".

_Near Richmond, North Yorkshire, England, November 2_ _nd_ _2144, 3:46 p.m._  

"Well, I think they're a perfectly _charming_ couple," Mrs. Moneyworth declared as she poured a fresh cup of tea for Miss Chen in her sunny and tastefully appointed drawing room.  

"Except that they're not," Mr. Auret corrected her with an impish grin. He was the youngest and newest member of their little writing circle, and by far the cheekiest. "Not _really._ What with one of them being a robot, after all." 

"Of course they're a couple, dearie," Mrs. Moneyworth said with serene confidence, topping up his cup without missing a beat. "They're both wearing rings, aren't they?" 

Mr. Auret actually blinked, a rare lapse in composure. "They are?" 

"Oh yes," Mrs. White nodded earnestly. "How could you possibly miss —?" 

Mrs. Moneyworth rebuked her to silence with a glance. "But of course you weren't here last summer," she told Mr. Auret kindly as she set down the teapot, "when they had that little ceremony on their property for a small group of their friends from Abroad." 

"Neither were we," Miss Wolveringham said with a laugh. "But Mrs. Moneyworth employed the same caterer for her Full Moon Tea the week after, and he told her everything, didn't he?" 

Miss Notting sipped contemplatively, looking pleased with the quality of the infusion, before observing: "It was all the neighbourhood could talk about for weeks after. Reverend Belawa, the United minister, officiated the service — purely in a non-legal capacity. It's said there wasn't a dry eye in the house, except for the robot's, of course." 

"Not that anybody really minded," Mrs. Moneyworth concluded with her Sphinx's smile. "After all, the good Professor had already been so generous with his time and his wealth on behalf of various local causes, and Joe is _such_ a dear, you simply can't help but love him at first sight." 

"But…" Mr. Auret seemed to have something stuck in his throat. "But he's _mecha!_  A se — a _lover_ robot!"

Mrs. Moneyworth waved one hand languidly. "Oh, Dr. Hobby has done something to his programming that's changed that. He told me so himself. Why, he's practically human now!" She picked up the plate of sugar cookies and extended it to Mr. Auret with a smile. "Would you care for a biscuit?" 

Mr. Auret accepted the offer, but he didn't seem to know quite what to make of it. This suited Mrs. Moneyworth perfectly: she liked nothing better than to control other people through the judicious application of information, at least as far as her own intimate circle was concerned. Now, Professor Allen Hobby… he would take more careful handling, but she was confident that in time she could win him over to her side — and that handsome mecha "spouse" of his, into the bargain. Even the most powerful and eccentric men had their weaknesses, and it was only a matter of time until she discovered his. 

And when she did... oh goodness, then this sleepy little community would become _very_ interesting indeed!

THE END


	5. Shawn McCormick/KITT/Brad Adair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of the "Knight Rider 2000 AU" series, which can be found here on AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/series/26086

_Northeast Baptist Hospital, San Antonio, Texas, USA, July 19_ _th_ _2003, 10:13 p.m._  

Rudy St. Claire, Senior Mechanic on the Knight Industries Four Thousand project, had barely set foot inside the doorway of the shadowed hospital room when Russell Maddock, who had been sitting beside Shawn McCormick's bed with a haunted expression on his face, shot to his feet, fixed Rudy with a fiery glare, and flared up like a tablet of lithium dropped into a glass of hot water.  
  
 _"_ _You!"_ he roared, then choked back the volume with an effort that visibly swelled the veins in his forehead. "You had to have known about this! How long has this been going on?" 

Rudy stopped in his tracks and looked at his boss for a long silent moment, giving the enraged man time to get himself under better control before responding with his own habitual calm demeanour: "I didn't know. Not for sure. Brad never told me — not in so many words." He nodded toward the small rumpled woman on the hospital bed, studded with drug feeds and a needle delivering saline solution, pale and wan beneath the monitors that tracked her thready vital signs. "But if you didn't know about Shawn and KITT… then with all due respect, sir, you're fricken' blind."

Maddock ground his teeth almost audibly, his gaze dragged back to the unconscious driver by a force even greater than that of his own will. He cared about her, a lot — maybe even loved her, in his own way. He had plenty of reasons not to have seen what was going on, Rudy reflected, but what had happened in the VR this afternoon past must have blown all his comfortable little illusions to kingdom come. After a moment he laid his hand over hers with supreme gentleness, sparing a cold venomous glance for the form lying on the room's other bed: Brad Adair, KITT's Senior Programming Technician, his head shaved and wreathed in a magnetic resonance therapy device that was suppressing his higher brain functions as his body recovered from a shock even greater than the one that Shawn had endured. She, at least, could look forward to opening her eyes one day soon: he, on the other hand… 

"What the hell happened in there?" Maddock demanded in a low voice full of rage — and pain, shining in his narrow black eyes and threatening to spill over. 

"Thought you'd have asked KITT by now," Rudy observed, crossing to Brad's side. He and Maddock now directly faced each other across the bodies of their colleagues, in a configuration that eerily matched their working alignments. 

The Knight Foundation's CEO shook his head once, savagely. "I couldn't get anything out of him except _It's all my fault — it should have been me, not them!"_ He imitated the AI's Boston accent with mocking accuracy born of long and acrimonious interaction. Rudy considered pointing out that KITT had emerged from the battle in VR badly torn up enough to be excused a bit of histrionic ranting — that in fact, given KITT's temperament such drama was practically inevitable — but decided against it. Maddock looked like his blood pressure was already high enough as it was. "But he'll talk — oh yes, he'll tell me _everything_ I want to know, you can count on that!" 

 _Not everything,_ Rudy thought to himself, looking down at Brad's face, so bloodless beneath its habitual tan. _He's not going to tell you that his senior programming tech was in love with him for over a year, because he didn't realize it himself until a few hours ago, when Brad took a psychic bullet for his sake and finally confessed how he felt because he thought it would be the last thing he ever said. He might tell you that he and Shawn crossed that line about six months ago, but he'd rather be torn to pieces than let you in on any of the details. And being KITT, he's more likely to tell you to go to Hell and buy you a one-way ticket — and I don't think you're going to find anybody on the Team who's willing to pry open his mind with a crowbar, not after what he's just been through, because you know something, Mr. Maddock? He may be "just a machine", but he's always been a helluva lot better liked than you ever were._  

For a long span of seconds silence reigned in the small dim room, punctuated only by the soft tracking noises of monitoring devices and the breathing of the four humans present, variously measured and aggrieved. It was Maddock who finally spoke again, and this time his voice was low and almost weary: "Let's see if I've got this straight: Brad… he was... in love with KITT, and KITT… "felt" something, for Shawn." 

Rudy judged that a nod would betray nobody's confidence. The actions of all three parties in the VR had demonstrated the dynamic clearly: Brad, intercepting the initial viral attack without hesitation so KITT wouldn't take the devastating hit, finally confessing all in his last seconds of consciousness... KITT, standing to defend Shawn and the tech even when ordered to retreat, even as the Shrike virus tore into him like arrows of poisoned light... and Shawn, when he'd weakened enough that he couldn't hold her back anymore with the strength of his will, wrapping herself around his damaged format to take the horrific damage in his stead. They'd fallen together, words of devotion the last communication they'd all shared. No wonder KITT was a basket case at the moment, trying to sort out the tangled intersection of human desires and his own complex construct of learned responses.

"And Shawn…" The quality of anguish deepened to an ache that tugged unexpectedly at Rudy's heart. "She… she cared for that damned machine. That's no surprise, not when she's carrying part of his hardware in her brain. But you're saying it — went beyond that?" 

Rudy nodded again. He wasn't going to mention that the two of them had been meeting in the VR in their "off" hours during those six months, deepening their connection in ways that had definitely _not_ been part of the official development timetable. KITT was going to have enough to deal with in the next few days without having that particular piece of information uncovered any earlier than absolutely necessary.

"Oh _hell_ …" Maddock closed his eyes and bowed his head, slipping his fingers fully under Shawn's and holding them tightly. He sounded far more exhausted than enraged now: "And it never occurred to anybody to tell me what was going on?" 

Rudy said nothing. There was really nothing to say. 

He opened his eyes to gaze upon her face once more with renewed determination. "When will KITT be ready for a full debriefing?" 

"Alpert wants to do a top-down diagnostic sweep, make sure none of the Shrike code got through the core firewall. If it didn't, twelve hours, give or take. If it did… depends on how long it takes to clean him out and run a confirmation diagnostic or three." 

"Well, make sure they —" At that moment Maddock's cell phone hummed, and he plucked it out of his jacket pocket and flipped it open one-handed. "Hello? Yes, this is… yes… thank God! When? Where?" 

Rudy turned his attention fully to Brad, to lay one large hand lightly on the unconscious man's slimly muscled upper arm and give it an encouraging squeeze. "Hey," he said softly over the background noise of Maddock snapping questions into his phone, "it's me, buddy. It's okay. KITT's gonna be just fine, and he gave me a message for you: Don't you _dare_ die on him, because if you do, he'll never forgive you as long as he lives. You wouldn't want that, would you? Yeah, didn't think so…" 

"— fine, I'll be right there!" Maddock snapped his phone shut and pocketed it again, hesitated a second — then bent to press a quick dry kiss to Shawn's unmoving cheek. Rudy considered it a measure of his devotion that he was willing to do so even in the presence of a less-than-sympathetic witness. "I've got to go," he announced, coming around the end of the bed, "but if she wakes up —" 

"I'll tell her you were here." 

He nodded grudgingly and continued on his way — then paused in the open doorway and turned on his heel, his eyes fiercely bright. "And let me tell you something, Rudy…" 

He met the Director's gaze evenly. "Yeah?" 

"KITT was right about one thing. It _should_ have been him." And then he was truly gone, leaving Rudy alone with two fallen comrades, the weight of past tragedy and looming mortality, and a thousand uneasy questions about the future — for all of them. 

THE END 


	6. Bob/Megabyte

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after "When Games Collide".

_Level Thirty-One, Ghetty Prime, System Mainframe, Subsector Alpha Two Five, The Net, 1427.374.12_

"I tell you, I know what I saw," Rasta Mon insisted, folding his arms with an air of finality and fixing Stripe with a flat glare. "Dey was kissin'. Weren't no two ways about _dat._ " 

The small crowd of binomes and numerals gathered around his usual table at Al's Wait and Eat shifted its gaze to the sceptical female sprite facing him and held its collective breath. Arguments between the two high-level sprites could be explosive, up to and including the hurling of food, drink and the occasional chair. Today, however, Stripe simply appeared amused: she sat back in her seat and studied the variegated nails of her left hand, one corner of her ebony-lipped mouth quirking ironically upward. 

"So lemme get this straight," she drawled in her Bostron accent: "Mainframe's Guardian and its biggest baddest virus were sucking face on Level Thirteen of Ghetty Prime?" 

"Yep," Rasta confirmed. 

"And you're the only witness?" 

"Dat wasn't a viral, yep. Dam good t'ing dey didn't see me too, but I guess dey was too busy dealin' wit dat… whatever d'Dell it was." 

"Sorry, but I'm finding that a little hard to believe." 

"Maybe I should've taken a JPEG," he scowled, "just so's you'd leave off the stompin' of my good name." 

Stipe laughed lightly. "Oh c'mon, Rasta, you've got to admit that —" 

He unfolded his arms and put both hands on the table, leaning forward emphatically. "Look, I saw d'whole thing from the next level up: looked like a tear, and Megabyte showed up with his bully-boys only about ten nanos before Bob came screamin' in lookin' to close it, I reckon. Dey was yellin' at each other about it when the t'ing went crazy, started sucking in binomes with dese light-tentacles, and Bob, he went to pull de poor bastards free —" 

"From the tentacles?" 

"Yep."  

"From the tear?" 

"Don't t'ink it was a regular tear, no-how. But it was eatin' de binomes up faster den pop-candy — User, y'should have heard dem screamin'! — and Bob tried to run to de rescue, but Megabyte grabs his arm quick as a whip-snake and won't let him go —" 

" _Megabyte_ did that? You'd think he'd be pleased as punch to see Bob get fragged." 

Rasta shook his head. "Nope. Held him back with dat iron fist of his, and of course Bob can't twist free of dat, and den dey _really_ started howlin' at each other, with de rest of Megabyte's troops lookin' on with der mouths wide open. I couldn't hear what dey were sayin' over the noise the tear-thing was makin' and de shriekin' of de ones gettin' eaten, but that's when Bob, he grabs Megabyte by de back of de neck and plants one on him like he really means it." 

Stripe's black eyebrows went straight up. "And Megabyte didn't tear his face off?" 

A dry chuckle wound its way out of Rasta's chest. "Nope. Just stood there and took it, lookin' like he'd been hit by an ABC — and he let go Bob's arm, so's Bob could twist free and go haring off with guns blazin'. Two nanoseconds later Megabyte, he's after him like a shot, and I heard _dat_ roar nice and clear, lemme tell you —" He tipped back his head and bellowed loud enough to shake the walls in their mountings: " _HOW_ ** _DARE_** _YOU, GUARDIAN!_ " 

He paused for dramatic effect, waiting for the raptly listening crowd to lean closer with an audible intake of breath, before continuing: "And den t'ings got… messy, so I couldn't see what was happenin' real clear. But at de end of it de tear-thing explodes and Megabyte comes out of de blast zone draggin' Bob by de scruff of his neck, who looks like 'bout a hundred kilos of bad road, all torn-up and blast-black — and Megsy, he ain't lookin' so hot himself. But he gets dem both clear, stands Bob back up on his feet, gives him a glare dat's fit to delete — and den he kisses _him_ , t'ree times as hard." 

Spike was shaking her head decisively. "I don't believe it. Rasta, you've been hitting the ROM too hard again." 

The dark red sprite spread his hands in a gesture of appeal. "User h'ep me, it's —" 

"— completely ridiculous, that's what." Spike glanced at the crowd around them, took a reading of the skepticism in their eyes, and grinned. "Nice try, bucko, but you'll have to do a tabbed sight better than that to pull the wool over our —" 

She was interrupted by an extra-large Vid Window springing open in the middle of the restaurant, filled with the face of a very familiar public figure, and that face was wearing an expression of the greatest urgency. _"Citizens of Mainframe!"_ it cried, _"This is Mike the TV with a breaking story of the greatest importance to everyone in the System: Guardians, sprites, binomes, subroutines — and viruses! The following MPEG footage was taken only milliseconds ago on Level Thirteen of this very city, and contains material which is NOT suitable for children! We take you now to the scene of a battle with a Class Seventeen tear — and a close encounter of an entirely different kind…"_  

The crowd at Al's watched the video. The crowd at Al's stared. The crowd at Al's flinched and cried out in amazement and disgust, twice. And at last the crowd at Al's turned wide eyes to Rasta and Spike, one of whom was looking thoroughly vindicated, the other of whom was looking slightly ill. 

"Well, I'll be spammed," Spike muttered at last.  

Rasta folded his arms again, this time smugly. "I t'ink you owe me some of dat ROM you was just talkin' about." 

Spike slowly shook her head. "You know what, Rasta? For once in your runtime, I think you're absolutely right." 

THE END


End file.
